


Best Laid Plans

by yuwoo



Series: A/B/O Trash Heap [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Betwixt the Sheets, Dubious Consent, Except Nothing Happens There, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Just in Bed, Knotting, Morning After, Over Them Too, Possessive Tom Riddle, Scenting, Size Kink, Vaginal Sex, Who Creeps on Hermione at the Ministry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuwoo/pseuds/yuwoo
Summary: Hermione groans inside, so hard it may as well be audible. Then she cracks an eye back open, because will you look atthat.Only then,thatturns around."Nooo," she groans out loud this time. "Notyou."An A/B/O fic where Hermione wonders what happened the night prior.[Chapter 1 reads as a complete one-shot. Writer is on hiatus but will be back to follow the story to its conclusion once Life Stuff settles down.]
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Series: A/B/O Trash Heap [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671148
Comments: 26
Kudos: 316





	Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> **Stop.** Before you proceed, please note this fic describes a morning after scenario. There is an uneven distribution of power where one party doesn't remember what they did the previous night while the other does. 
> 
> Chapter 1 is written in a light-hearted tone. Chapter 2, while not _dark_ as far as fanfic goes, will describe what occurred the night before and will be rife with issues of consent. 
> 
> You can read Chapter 1 as a smutty one-shot and leave it there. Author notes and tags will change once Chapter 2 is complete when the story takes on a dimmer quality. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy Chapter 1 as a stand-alone.

Hermione's first thought when she gains consciousness is a confused garble given that she can't remember how she got in bed. The second is one of extreme violence towards the sun. The third is—

She slams her lids shut. 

'Nooo,' she groans inside, so hard it may as well be audible.

Then she cracks one eye back open, because— Well. That third thought ran more along the lines of, 'Will you look at _that.'_

 _That_ is long, corded legs standing past the open door of her bathroom across the hall. _That_ is a tight, athletic arse and narrow hips with dimples in between. _That_ is sharp scapulae, rippling back, and wide shoulders, graced by a refined nape and pitch-black hair. 

_That_ turns around, so Hermione feigns sleep, but the sudden crush of her head to her pillow gives her away. The man—tall and pale, with a soft, dark trail leading to a barely-glimpsed _—good grief—_ moves towards her. She can hear him—no, she can _sense_ him, with every nerve shrieking inside her beleaguered, hungover body—start to walk.

What on earth happened last night? 

Hermione urges the typically high-functioning neurons in her brain to fire, but they spark, half-hearted, then sputter, just as sluggish as the rest of herself. 

All she can recall is going to the Leaky Cauldron with Harry and Ron after that nightmare of a recent case. Her friends had washed their hands of it weeks back, but she, being part of Investigations, had to slog through the ordeal to its last miserable file. 

She had that Butterbeer, she remembers. And then she'd gone rather faint. Then—

'Tension elevated under duress for extended periods,' she thinks muzzily. 'Comedown effect followed by a crash, triggering the release of stress horm—oh, for fuck's sake.'

The last bit sounds a bit too much like Ron, but why wouldn't it after Hermione had dated him for seven years? His elocution, if it could be called such, was all but a second voice lodged in her head. And really, for _fuck's sake—_ she should have known to head straight home. Her hormones ran rampant after anything more exerting than revision despite her miltant regimen with her suppressants; the N.E.W.T.s alone had led to the loss of her virginity. 

'Hormones,' she considers darkly, and then with an abrupt start transitions to alarm. 'Bloody hell,' she thinks in Ron Voice. She didn't go into a pseudo-heat, did she?

She remembers another voice, then. She remembers it saying, _"I knew you'd be like this..."_

Only she can't continue in that train, because the hostile light needling her eyelids suddenly dissipates. There's a shift in the air and then the sound of someone else's breathing. 

With reluctance, she dislodges her head from the pillow to look up. 

She slams it back down. 

"Nooo," she groans out loud this time. "Not _you."_

—

It's that total tosser Riddle—emphasis on _tosser._ She's not privy to all he does since he's an Unspeakable, but she has some inkling given the litany of orgiastic sycophantry that follows him. The way the man himself spoke during their encounters could as well be classed within some genus of masturbation.

Riddle speaks then. "I'm hurt, Granger," he says in his stupid, deep voice—who sounds like that outside of Muggle movies anyway?—he says, "Is that how you treat all your lovers? I'll take heart from the different ways you moaned last night and attribute the rest to the current hour."

"Get out of my house," she responds.

"It's a flat," he corrects, like the prick he is. "And, to be frank, you could do much better."

That does it. 

Hermione gets up to her elbows in search of her wand. When her wand proves elusive, she glares at the older man. 

In her crispest tone, she says, "I'll bear your unsolicited comment in mind, Riddle, but in the meantime— _get out."_

Only he doesn't get out, because he's a _prick,_ and instead, he oozes—well, alright, he's too elegant and, and, _pretty_ to ooze, but he does something like it—he _slithers_ over her to the empty side of the bed and flicks open the coverlet. 

"Very nice," he comments. "Sweet and supple, just as I recall."

She can't help whatever twists across her face then. 

_"Supple?"_ she demands. "You sound like some eighty-year-old pervert. No, some eighteenth century pervert," but Riddle just smiles, like a pervert, and says, "I'm more a fan of the nineteenth century, myself; I quite enjoy Wilde."

Hermione feels like she should make some cutting rejoinder but stalls. It crosses her mind that anything to come out may sound prejudiced—which is _not_ what she'd intend, and also easily weaponised by the man next to her. In the interim, her home intruder smiles wider and adds, "Though I'll admit there's something to be said for the Marquis."

The last words inspire a shiver to run through her body—a shiver of revulsion, she tells herself. 

"That's Muggle," she settles on, desultory. 

Riddle raises a brow. "I'm half-Muggle," he says in a slow articulation. "Didn't you know?"

Surprising to her is that he's sharing the information at all, but she can't let him know that of course she knows—that she makes it a point to know as much as she can about potential enemies— No, opponents, that's what she means. No, obstacles. 

'Hindrances,' she decides, only that sounds— 

'Coworkers,' she reminds herself, firm.

After this mental calibration, she says aloud, "You wouldn't guess it based on the sort you surround yourself with."

But Riddle—and _why_ is he still there? Why is he on her bed? _Why is he coming under the covers?_ —he smells good—Riddle puts on an air of forbearance and replies, "Yes, it's all so one-dimensional."

There's nothing one, or two—maybe not even three—dimensional about that body slinking in next to hers. The sheets suffuse with warmth and a woodsy, masculine scent; Hermione grasps for her dignity.

"I'll tell you a secret," Riddle murmurs then. Conspiratorial, he confides, "I don't like any of them."

Then, with a strong, long-fingered hand, he closes the space between them by dragging her tight against his body. 

"But I do like you." 

Hermione's brain shorts, but the projection of her ex comes to the rescue. 

'That's shite,' scoffs Ron's Voice in her head. Hermione's inclined to agree. 

"Oh, and I'm supposed to believe that?" she says in the face of his declaration. "As far as I know, all you _like_ to do is stick your nose where it doesn't belong—like in my _case files."_

His stupid, straight nose, all sticking out and refined. If her voice is rather shrill, it's only that it's all of the sudden rather warm. 

Warm, from the heat of his smooth, hard body against hers. Warm, like the scent rising off of him, which doesn't just smell good, but _very_ good. Warm, like the blush blazing across her cheeks. Warm, because down below, she's—

"Dripping," Riddle observes. "You're drenched." When she opens her mouth to deny it, he says, "I can feel it on my leg."

Said leg slides further between her own and rubs up against her quim. It is, in fact, drenched. 

Hermione jerks away—or she would, if it weren't for the arm crossing her back and the hand at her shoulder; she's stuck to Riddle in an iron grip.

"You were so good last night," he breathes, rubbing in a slow, inexorable grind. His hand takes a meandering path down her arm to her hips, setting them in counter-rhythm.

It's excruciating. The even smattering of light hair and smooth skin encasing Riddle's toned thigh makes Hermione shudder. She gropes at his chest where her hands are wedged—first in self-defence, and then— Well. Hm.

She takes inventory of the rest of her body.

She's soaking, it's true. Tender, too. Her throat clicks when she tries to swallow. If she'd had a pseudo-heat like she suspects, she would be dehydrated anyway, so who knows about—about any activities there. Only it's not just her throat that's sore but _everything—_

'Merlin,' she thinks. 'What _happened—"_

"Last night," Riddle says then. His hand clenches at her hipbone, tight. "You don't remember any of it, do you?"

He leans his head away from her, assessing. Whatever he finds must confirm his suspicions, because he exhales. As far as exhales go, it sounds—

Well, there's some kind of emotion buried there. 

Hermione rallies. "Please," she says. "It's not like this is the first time." 

The hand at her hip _bruises_ then. "What's that supposed to mean?" Riddle asks sharply. "Are you saying prim, proper Granger of the fourteen-year Weasley wooing makes a habit of bringing men to bed?"

"That is _not_ what I mean," Hermione snips back. "I just mean, this situation we're in isn't all that uncommon, is it? Two people, having had a night out, finding themselves in each other's company the morning after," and even as Riddle's grip loosens, her own fingers dig into his chest. "And I wasn't dating Ronald since I was _eleven—_ that's absurd."

"Sources would beg to differ," Riddle mutters then. 

"Well your sources are wrong. And if, by any chance, those sources go by the names of Draco Malfoy or Theodore Nott, then you should find different sources."

"Well _sources"—_ the word's lost all meaning— _"sources_ can come first-hand." Riddle's lips meet hers then when he murmurs, "Shall I remind you of what transpired last night?"

Whatever Hermione was going to answer with gets lost in his mouth, and anything intended to follow morphs into a moan. Her hands turn to desperate claws against Riddle's skin as she scrabbles them to his broad shoulders when he pushes her flat.

"We fucked," he informs her, succinct. "And you liked it." 

He nips at her, then licks back in before saying, "You're going to like it just as much when we do it again."

Without any further warning, he positions himself at her cunt and drives in.

—

Hermione's breath whooshes out of her. 

'Bloody hell,' she barely manages to think as she's split wide. She cranes her neck to get a look, because the man's cock feels improbably large. 

Only the possessor of said cock is plastered to her from hip to chest; he refuses to let an inch. Riddle buries his face in her neck and growls. 

"So good," he says. "You smell so. Damned. Good."

He spears his cock into her with torturous, decisive thrusts. It's as though she can feel every millimetre of wet contact in hair-raising detail through the stretch.

At least the feeling's mutual—his scent pervades her entirety. Her head swims. The sensation of skin on skin does no favours for Hermione's faculties either. She's not sure anymore if what's happening is real life or a particularly lurid dream. Reality or no, all she can do is hold on as her entrance strains to take him in. 

The rest of her insides as well—it feels like she's getting cored.

There's no way this happened last night and she didn't remember—she's sure of it. Not when it feels like a monument's getting shoved up her—

"Tight little cunt," Riddle swears then. "Your sweet, pretty pussy's so good for me, isn't it?"

Hermione feels like she should take issue with him having her genitalia sound like some sort of disembodied _pet,_ but right as she opens her mouth to protest, his hips increase their pace—all she can do is bite down her scream.

Except she does anyway—scream, that is. Her knees crawl up to her shoulders while her shins lock to Riddle's ribcage in reflexive stress. Whatever measured fuck the man may have been striving for disintegrates after those first plunges of precarious control—she feels his lips curl against her neck, then the press of his teeth as he drills in.

It hurts. She's aware of it; she's being cleaved in two. Only it's slick, as well, and hot, and every nerve _thrills—_ the pain becomes inconsequential to the mouth that bites at her—to the low, muted, feral noises that make Hermione gush just that bit more. 

The hurt is nonexistent by the time the percussive smack of clinging flesh and their moans perforate the air. Long, gliding thrusts become frantic jabs that bring unnaturally hard lower abdominals into contact with her mound. The soft prickle of pubic hair against her clit has her whining, _"Riddle,_ for the love of—just—"

But her words are lost because Riddle withdraws, leaving Hermione to cry out in censure, but then she's being folded in two and split again, her pleasure all of the sudden seeming coincidental. Riddle pulls out to the tip, then _pops_ back in, and—

Hermione jolts under the crush of the man's body. Her racing heart triple times when she remembers, of course, Riddle's _trail_ of followers in the halls, the way other Omegas _swooned_ in the lifts—Hermione didn't spare these things the dignity of her much-demanded attention, but of course he's an Alpha, of course he's going to—

"Riddle," she warns, dangerous, only he's huffing at her neck, licking at the thin skin over her pheromone gland, so she continues in a grit, "you can't. I've never—"

"You have," he snarls, and then rams into her, balls deep, biting hard enough to break skin. Hermione barely has time to think, 'You complete, utter _arse,'_ before the knot he's forced into her swells with an audible squelch as her drip runs out, a panicked evacuation—

It's massive. Colossal. It's why she'd been happy dating Ron, a Beta. She'd never understood the appeal of _being ripped apart and bleeding to death,_ because that is what it _feels_ like, only right after that thought, her channel constricts, and suddenly the friction is—

 _"Ohhh,"_ she moans, and she's thinking about another form of death now—death by cockknot, death by dicking, what an embarrassing, brilliant, _glorious_ way to go—she moans again as her soft, inner tissue spasms around the thick organ around her in a hungry, uncaring beat. 

"You're an arse," she manages out past her peak—it's the principle of the thing—only he gives a little growl that sends her cunt squeezing around him even harder. His hands leave their bruising hold on the backs of her thighs to fist at her breasts—they thumb at her nipples in a steady, malicious twirl.

"You love it," Riddle hisses into her skin. "You love feeling so tight—torn-up on my knot and full-up with my cum." Beyond the mind-numbing pleasure, Hermione feels it then—the hot spurts inside her, shooting at a volume so high she wonders that it all fits.

"You smell so good—you smell like you'd die without my cock up in you," he says. "Going to breed you full; everyone will know you’re mine." 

The words sear through her. They should not make her clamp around him even harder, but she does, even as her face furrows into a frown, even as the man keeps trying to fuck his huge cock deeper, that blunt, thick base making her fall apart, yet again.

Everything's so wet she can feel the sheets underneath slipping—slick from the spend escaping where they're joined. 

"That's it," Riddle says as he drags his knot against her insides. He flexes his hips in tiny circles, insistent. 

His hands give a final, vicious squeeze to her chest _—"Your perfect little tits, Granger"—_ then go down to her clit in a firm, smooth press before swirling around it, incessant, until she arches into a third, painful, cramped climax. 

"No, Riddle," she says—whimpers, she admits. "No more," she begs, as he keeps pushing in. 

But he just grunts in satisfaction and then grinds yet another orgasm from her, growls at the taut clench. He keeps thrusting. Short, demanding, selfish.

"Shh," he hushes, voice dark. "Just a little more."

—

Hermione's mind goes to mist—she can't attribute it to her hangover. She gets an impression of Riddle against her, crooning, and then it wavers between morning and night. 

She shakes away the disorientation to focus on more pressing matters, such as the one pressing up inside her, still suffusing her with heat. Riddle's taken to gnawing on her, if someone such as he—even with the sweat-slicked skin and tousled hair—could do something as crude as _gnaw._

"Stop it," she says, tugging at his head, but he tightens his grip on her arse—that's where his hands took residence during her daze. 

So Hermione instead asks at the ceiling, "How much longer?" She waves, gesturing at their general situation: an Alpha and an Omega, post-coitus.

Riddle kneads at her cheeks for a protracted minute before answering, "An hour or so."

Hermione blinks.

One hour. 

One hour of being stuck on Unspeakable Tom Marvolo Riddle's cock. 

"You have _got_ to be joking!"

The man only grasps at her harder. When his fingers begin to creep in, she kicks him with her heel. 

"Stay put," she says. It's nonsensical, she knows, since there's nowhere either will be going _—for an hour._ She huffs and announces, "I'm taking a nap." 

At that, Riddle draws back. Hermione's eyes widen at the look on his face. 

"Not this time," he says, hands leaving her bum. 

He twists her nipples, hard, then slaps her tits tight. 

"How dare you," he murmurs, eyes thinning to sooty slits. He presses the abused flesh together. "How dare you let anyone else see these." His hips start up, single-minded.

Even as Hermione's gut drops, another feeling swoops through her—one of anticipation, and of greed. 

Riddle pushes his knot against her in and in and in.

—

 _"Breed me,"_ she recounts later with venom. 

The subject of her disdain smooths his hands over the contours of her waist. At some point, the man had rolled so that she rested atop him. Hermione sits there, peeved. 

"Such an outdated turn of phrase. Repulsive, to be honest," she states. 

Her breath hitches, then, when the bulge inside her flexes; she feels a wet trickle leak out from where it's tied. 

Riddle, like his cock, makes himself known. 

"Something said in the heat of the moment," he says, light, as he gives an experimental swivel of the hips—Hermione gasps again. He gives an equally breezy smile as he says, "No need to read deeper into it. I know you're too young to start a family."

His lashes cast a shadow over his cheekbones as he follows the statement with a slanted look down her form. Hermione allows herself a moment of resentment for their length before his voice cuts back in.

"My plans don't account for children, either," he murmurs.

 _That_ has Hermione tensing around his knot, even as it begins to shrink. 

"Yes, I'm sure you're just brimming with _plans,_ Riddle," she clips out with narrow eyes. "Care to share?"

Riddle squints back, but his eyes are crescents of amusement. 

"Oh, well, I used to fantasise about being a leader of some sort, back at Hogwarts," he says in a pleasant tone. Hermione tenses further. "Now that I've been out, I've learned with age to appreciate being in the shadows, shall we say." 

As if he's some wizard at the peak of his power, and not just on the cusp of thirty—Hermione stifles a moan as Riddle raises her body off his own. Their spend pours out of her onto his cock, gone soft but still heavy.

After she takes a moment to regain her breath, Hermione cocks an eyebrow. She baits, "The power behind the throne, then?" She delivers the question with a bite, but something within her relaxes all the same. Riddle raises his own brow in response as he settles her back to the sheets.

"Granger," he reproves down at her with a deft twist of his torso. "We live in a democracy."

Hermione rolls her eyes so hard a muscle strains.

A hand skates its way up her leg. Riddle has a gleam in his gaze. It's one she's seen pointed towards her often enough—every time they've crossed paths, in fact, even over rooms and hallways. She'd always deemed it the prelude to a quip, or one of triumph at leaving with the last word, or evidence of some nefarious plot— Now, she's beginning to wonder if it was ever any of that at all. 

The current gleam is accompanied by an expression that can only be taxonomised as licentious. 

Riddle trails a finger along her inner thigh as he says, "Let's see." He sticks said finger into her cunt, then pumps it—only to withdraw before she can start appreciating it in full. 

He brings it up to his lips. A tongue emerges, pink, shining.

The sound he makes has her face _ignite_ with heat. This just proved how depraved he was, how deep his narcissism ran, how, how—what kind of sane person made _that_ noise at their own bodily fluids? Hermione's throat swallows as if in sympathy; she can almost taste the salty bitterness of it.

Then Riddle rolls on top of her, bracing his body with a single hand. Hermione's mouth snaps shut when she sees his clenched abdominals, then the heavy, softened erection going stiff again. 

He wraps a fist around it and begins a slow, measured wank.

She watches as it fills further. Its reddened tip juts out from the foreskin that covers it with every stroke. She looks at his long fingers—beautiful, she grudgingly acknowledges, just gorgeous—graceful like a pianist's, or some other artistic stereotype. However long his fingers are, his cock still looks massive: a thick, rigid length flushed dark and dangerous with blood.

"I always thought you would do well in my department," Riddle says out of nowhere, still jerking himself. "Though I've come to believe you won't be ending up there."

Hermione stays silent even as she concurs. 

The Department of Mysteries _was_ seductive in its own way, but people who went there _stayed_ there; she didn't want that for herself. She wanted to make a difference. 

She wanted to work with her friends by her side, and once she felt they were in a good place, she wanted to leave Investigations and the Witch Watchers to somewhere with less secrecy, something like the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. By then she'd have enough experience that she wouldn't need to worry about not having a certain N.E.W.T. score... Hagrid as a professor had just been— Anyway. She'd be able to transfer just fine, and then once she was done there, the department's focus on trade agreements as well as lingering nostalgia from the Triwizard Tournaments and her continued correspondence with Viktor would have her saying—

Riddle's fist speeds up as he looks into her eyes; Hermione considers shielding herself with her arms. It's ridiculous after everything that's happened, but that _stare—_ one of her hands slides down and pats about—she wonders if there's enough coverlet to tug over herself—

But half her mind is still stuck in her prior thoughts, where she's expressed she'd like to expand her horizons and moved to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, from which she would then hesitantly put forth to friends and family that maybe she was due to go back to her roots, focus on home—perhaps within the Wizengamot Administration Services. 

The DMLE head would _not_ like his former charge returning to him only to start at the bottom pushing parchment work, but she'd insist it was only fair; besides, she was keen on learning more about the intricacies of litigation after everything else she had done—only James Potter would rail at the other Heads of Department—at anyone within shouting distance—and her friends would question her _why_ that subdivision when she was qualified for so much more—why would she be doing _that,_ of all things, when she could be—

"Minister Granger," Riddle utters.

Hermione's body _sweeps_ with heat as the syllables meet the air—her hands fly up to her face, but she can _feel_ his smile as her cunt drips—she glares at him through her fingers.

'Bastard,' she thinks with all the vitriol she can muster—not much, given how her body thrums—then, 'Bloody prick.'

The man's prick is positively _engorged_ where it's wetting his fist—just massive. It's turned even darker than it was before.

"Right on both accounts, I'm afraid," Riddle says, wry, in an uncanny echo of her thoughts—and that just confirmed _that_ —the man's been using Legilimency, completely unmonitored, for who knows how long. Who knows what the _literal_ tosser's been up to down in bloody Mysteries, let alone _his entire life—_

None of that stops her from spreading her legs. 

Riddle's smile shifts to a smirk, and he lowers himself to his elbow. 

'Massive,' Hermione affirms wildly when he pushes in. 

"You and I," he murmurs as she gasps at a deep thrust, "are going to have _so_ much fun."

**Author's Note:**

> Second time I'm using the same, tired 'bastard' joke in a fic—probably not the last.
> 
> —
> 
> Content advisory: as stated in the top notes, there is an imbalance of power regarding memories from a prior, drunken night. There is also under-negotiated/surprise knotting and (of course, because it's me) foul, sexual language. Someone disregards the other when they say "no" and other equivalents before/during/after orgasm.
> 
> Reminder that the story tags and notes will change once Chapter 2 is complete and uploaded.
> 
> —
> 
> I will most likely make minor writing adjustments to this off and on, so downloaders, please take note.


End file.
